a deceptive view
by So Guhn
Summary: England has an embarassing problem with America's glasses. England x America.


a/n: obviously I have a HUGE glasses fetish, so does England. Or maybe I should say, he has an inverse!glasses fetish? I honestly don't know. My brain was supposed to be focusing on finishing projects for school today and apparently my hard focusing has led to country porn.

Oh, and this isn't based on any historical event that I know of.

Enjoy?

_a deceptive view_** - humour/drama/romance - R - England x America**

It started out like it always did.

However this time.

"Take them off."

England told America, just as America had crouched forward on his bed toward England, intent on receiving a kiss. America looked at him in mild surprise, brows drawn up that gave him a comical look that did not fit the situation.

"But England, our clothes are already off-" he motioned to the covers, the scattered clothes over the floor which only served to emphasise England's near sputtering, a nice red flaring up from cheeks down further... dully noted by America.

"No-not that!"

As if saying they- as if implying that they were naked in bed was much more embarrassing than the actual act of being so. England's voice sounded like he'd crossed his arms, however both hands, wrists laid firmly against the mattress, fisting beneath America's hands, as he continued, "Your glasses."

"My glasses?" America replied, brow drawn higher up in skeptism.

England's expression drastically differed, determination set in the very line of his mouth, prepared by all means not to answer or give reason to the very question that he was surely going to be asked.

Surely.

"Why do I have to take my glasses off?" England was surely asked, America propping back on his knees to be able to have balance to allow his hands to tweak at said glasses curiously.

England meanwhile, was getting redder by the minute.

Interesting, thought America.

England shot him a glare as if to say he knew what he was thinking. But America didn't know what England was thinking and there was by no means any way to get out of him what he was. Thinking. For, how could he- how would he be able to tell America that the reason he wanted him to take off his glasses was because when they were- _cough_ doing _cough_ it, the positions that they often took led to those very glasses becoming a skewed?! And it was most uncomfortable to have your legs over someone's shoulders only to see that their glasses were hanging by one ear while the other side was juggled up with every thrust- yes, having to hold in laughter that's unable to escape one anyway at that sort of given time was not exactly ideal.

So this time was going to be different.

"Just take them off!"

America sighed, hands coming up to take them off, but falling short as he had to give his own last two cents, "Very well, but I have to let you know it's going to a damn shame when I can't even see you-"

In one sharp, quick motion England took them off himself.

And regretted it in an instant, when the blinking eyes of America turned to try to look down at him.

Without the glasses...

The response, frankly, was instantaneous.

For one. It was England who slammed America against the mattress. It was England who initiated the kiss, lips plummeting down upon America's (because it always seemed like America started it, a tap on the shoulder, a caught wrist, the invitation of an empty hallway or his body baring the way), intent on entrance and entrance _now_ with a probing tongue and hot hands already jerkily pulling at the back of America's head to just bring his mouth _closer_, fingers caught on yellow locks of hair because he-

"Whoa!" America said, as he pushed England what had to be only half an inch away from him, struggling for breath only to have it caught again as England kissed him once more, America's face imprinted in his mind- America whose face looked so much younger without those glasses, a face that brought him back to old days when he didn't have to look up but had to look down, and see the smile on his face met with another beaming smile, America's upturned face as he rushed to greet him- the opened door, that time when he used to say nice things about his cooking, when every gift was something to be treasured, when they met in that field of sunshine, the wind blowing over the tall green grass and America looked up to him and said ("I'm glad you came-")

"Why are you crying?"

England hastily wiped at the moisture that had gathered at the corner of his eyes, voice not coming out as angrily as he'd hoped, (not questioning how America knows, how America can see that he's been- was about to-) "Don't talk."

It doesn't matter.

And both lie there sweating, slick flesh against slick flesh- America looked at the ceiling and wonders why he's tired already- but there's something else now, because now he knows, now he knows what England is thinking about; he's thinking about it too.

It's comforting, their breaths, with the heave of each thought they just lie there, as if they immersed themselves by intake of air and its presence that proved to all that they are living- "England," and America said it softly, tried to say it like he once did, he's not exactly sure why. But there's something about the expression England made as he stood, hovered over America. It gripped his heart with nostalgia, something a death bed could not even do (because he would deny it, every time England is sick, America knows England will get better. Because America is there, because America had not been there before, England would not fall so long as he-)

"England," once more, hands cupped his face, a leg between his. England whispered things to him he can't exactly hear- and America backed away against the bedpost as nervous anticipation seems to spread through his very bloodstream as England leaned closer and closer until-

"Ow!"

They fell off the bed.

Awkward silence, as if everything that had been snapped out of place as been exactly snapped back.

"So this is where you put my glasses, you just dropped them on the floor!"

A bit guilty, yet angrily, "Well, if I put them on the nightstand you would have just put them back on- hey! You take those off now!"

"No! You're scary when I don't wear them!"

Flushed admission.

"You didn't think that when you were younger."

"I didn't think _a lot_ of things about _you_ when I was younger."

England doesn't appreciate the suggestion in America's voice as he said that and angrily swiped off America's glasses once again, only barely detecting a hint of panic on the younger man's face as he did so, and instead of discarding them any more (say, on the bed- for they were on the floor now, it must be cold for America; England thought, as he's on top of him so-) and puts them on, crossing his arms.

"There. Isn't that better?"

America gaped at him as if he has lost all his marbles, frantically propping himself back on his elbows, reaching out to take back his glasses, when-

"Hey!" England started, hands grabbing at the frames protectively, as if facts would no longer remain facts unless his hands took hold of them, his vision not marred in any way other than the vision of the embarrassed twist of America's mouth and the anxiety ridden in his eyes bared before him, all this happening while he sat atop America's stomach, and so he cried out- "These are fake!"

Which was the last thing he cried out that wasn't America's name that night as America decided that there'd be only one way to make England forget all about fake glasses.

Hell, when he was done, England was going to forget he even wore glasses!

--

a/n: America's glasses are fake! I'm going to beat this prompt like a dead horse, you'll see.


End file.
